Cross Her Heart(39)

We didn’t really talk at all on this night to ourselves I’d arranged. Alison left a supermarket version of a Chinese takeaway in the fridge and I heated it up and we ate it on our laps in front of the telly. I said I liked her hair and she started to apologise all over again. I said it didn’t matter and we’d get through it. She looked so relieved. How can she think it’s that easy? Like we can get back to how we were before? That life was a pack of lies anyway.

Yesterday, when I had started my campaign of niceness, she came into my room, picking at the edges of her fingers as she sat on my bed. She told me to write down any questions I had for her. It was Alison’s idea. Not questions about it – she can’t bring herself to say what she did – but about her life and our lives and anything else. She said she’ll answer them all as best she can. I told her I would, but I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to know any of it now. Okay, maybe I do want to know – tell me about my dad – but what good would it do? It doesn’t matter. Not any more.

We watched more TV and drank cups of tea as if this was some normal evening at home, and I quietly clock-watched, desperate for the time to pass, wondering if he was feeling the same.

Eventually Mum took her sleeping pill – I wonder how many pills they’ve got her on right now – and I made a big deal of yawning and saying I was tired, and I kissed her on the head before going to my room. It was the only freaky moment in all this. Something about the smell of her scalp made my stomach cramp, and for a second I wanted to climb on to her lap like I did when I was small. When she was my world. It was a funny, horrible feeling and I slammed the lid on it hard. I don’t know if she’s capable of loving me – if she could love, she’d never have done what she did – and I can’t understand why she even had me. These are the sorts of questions Alison wants me to write down. But fuck them. I’m not going to be here. She’s not part of my new life. He’s my world and he’ll be waiting. He has to be.

I lie in my bed in the dark, my clothes on under the duvet that’s pulled up under my chin. What will he think of my new look? I’ll have to change it again, anyway. The hair colour at least, because no doubt the police will look for me. But I’m sixteen. I’m not a child. They’ll think I’ve run away, and they’ll be right. I’m going to leave a note. It says, ‘Don’t come and look for me.’ It’s short but does the job and I didn’t want to mention him. It’s not his fault this is such a fucked-up situation.

Has Alison noticed the money missing from her wallet? I took thirty when she was in talking to Mum before she left, and I took a twenty from the psychiatrist yesterday. She hasn’t been back today so fuck knows whether she suspected.

Anyway, fifty should be enough if I can find a phone box for a cab or a bus still running. I’ve got to get to the country lane where we’re going to meet. Where no one will see us. It’s further away now, but still doable. We said four a.m. so I’ve got plenty of time. If he’s not there I’ll go to Ange’s or Jodie’s. But he will be there. He loves me. When we’re safely away, I’ll message my friends and tell them not to worry. I’ll have to deal with the other thing too, the thin blue line Jodie was going to help me sort out, but he’ll deal with that. I know he will. He’s been so understanding about Courtney, even though he got jealous. Will having an abortion make me feel more grown up? Will I seem more grown up to him? Maybe one day we’ll have children of our own but right now, I just want this thing out of me. Maybe it will go away all by itself. When I’m not feeling sick, I can almost pretend it’s not there.

I wait until the flat is completely silent. My heart thumps. My mouth is dry. He will be there, he will be there, I tell myself. He won’t let me down. I push my covers back and quietly stand. I don’t put my shoes on yet. They can wait until I’m out of the flat and in the corridor.

I gather my things and check my pockets for my money before creeping out the front door.

This is it, I think. And then I’m gone.





33


MARILYN

‘Look. There. You see?’ Richard holds the magazine out in front of me. ‘She’s done it.’ Mrs Goldman, the old bird who lives – lived – next door to Lisa stares out at me from the cover. She looks frail. Did someone bully her into this? It’s a lurid magazine, the gossipy kind found in dentists’ and doctors’ waiting rooms, and aimed at the more ‘settled’ woman than Closer or Heat. I glance at the headline above the photo of Mrs Goldman on her front step: Charlotte Nevill’s neighbour tells all – the secret life of the child killer. I take the magazine and drop it on the side, flicking to the relevant page. A quote stands out. I always knew she was odd. A loner.

‘It’s bullshit,’ I say, turning away to stir my coffee. ‘And she should be ashamed of herself. Lisa used to buy her bloody shopping for her, and add extra treats. She checked on Mrs Goldman more than her own family ever did.’

‘That’s not the point.’ I hear it then. The anvil hardness. He’s running out of patience with me and playing nice hasn’t worked. ‘If she can peddle this shit to a national magazine, we can probably up the Mail’s offer. It’s your story they all want. You knew her best.’

‘Given how things stand, I’d say I didn’t really know her at all.’ I don’t have time for this. I have to go to work so I slide past – gently does it – to get my coat and feel the tension radiating from him as he tries to keep his rage under control.